


In the Space of a Breath

by Mice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 21:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the space of one breath, Mycroft's day goes from boredom to terror. All Greg can do is watch and hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Space of a Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Proof-loofa by Random-Nexus. Britpicking by LadyLilyMalfoy. Written for weirdo-with-a-computer for the Tumblr April Mystrade fic exchange.

If he'd not been required to attend, Mycroft would never have been at the function at all. It was black tie, the canapés were substandard at best, and the champagne was the only saving grace he could find. Sadly, even good champagne wasn't going to make the stifling evening worthwhile.

The extravagantly decorated hotel ballroom was filled with petty bureaucrats, minor politicians, once-popular celebrities, and several moderately placed governmental functionaries, all preening like peacocks and hoping to be seen with the "right" individuals. There were moments when Mycroft thoroughly despised his "minor government official" cover; it left him attending the most mind-numbing charity events in the history of humanity.

Greg could never be persuaded to attend any of them with him, though Mycroft could not fault the man on his refusals. Whilst it would have been far less boring were his partner present, Greg had tried once and felt dreadfully out of place, making it rather awkward for both of them. "I want to run screaming from half of them, and chin the other half," Greg had said at the end of the evening.

He had at least another two hours before he could even contemplate escape. Disappearing too early was poor form, and his superiors would hear of it. Appearances must be preserved, after all, and Mycroft was nothing if not brilliant at appearances. Despite all the power he wielded from the shadows, in this petty misery Mycroft was just like any other minor bureaucrat.

Mycroft excused himself from a thoroughly tedious conversation and made his way toward another knot of people with whom he had to ingratiate himself. Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he intended to check his email, hoping against hope that his PA would have some dire emergency requiring his attention, and that he could beg off the party without requiring explanations later. The shockwave of a violent explosion threw Mycroft off his feet, sending him flying while debris rained on and about him. Pain and darkness swallowed him in the space of a single breath as he struck an upturned table and slumped to the floor.

***

The wall of photographs wasn't going anywhere, nor were the interminable stacks of notes, files, and forms they were examining for the case. Sally sighed and sipped at her coffee, gone disappointingly cold when she wasn't looking. She tapped her pen on the form in front of her in a soft but rapid rhythm.

"Donovan." Sally looked up to where her boss, DI Lestrade, was standing staring at one of the photographs. "Come have a look at this." He waved a magnifier in her direction without looking at her and she got up to join him, taking it and leaning in to where he was pointing.

"What am I looking at?"

Lestrade squinted and leaned in a little closer, his finger hovering over a spot near the lower left corner of the photo. "I get the feeling we're missing something here. Damned if I know what it is, though. What does that look like to you?"

She leaned in with him, her shoulder brushing his, peering through the glass. "Writing? Why wouldn't that have been in the report? What's it say?"

Lestrade's answer didn't leave his lips due to the sudden, rising commotion in the hallway outside the Major Incident Room. Both of them went to the door. "What's going on?" he asked one of the constables running past.

"Bomb went off," the constable told them over her shoulder, not stopping.

"Shit." Lestrade and Sally looked at each other for a moment before dashing down the hall with the others, wanting more information.

The whole department was in a state of controlled chaos. Anywhere there was a telly, it was showing footage of the bombed hotel, the press already at the scene. Smoke rose from several windows that they could see, and the pavement was blocked with rubble fallen from part of the building's facade. Their own teams were on the way, along with fire and medical emergency services. "Good Christ," Lestrade muttered.

"God, I hope there aren't any other devices in the building." Sally stared at the screen, just letting the chaos flow around her. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Lestrade's mobile.

"Lestrade, yeah." He paused for a moment. "God, no." Sally turned at the sound of his voice, tight and stressed. "Have you-- No. Yeah. Yeah." He'd gone pale and Sally put a hand on his shoulder to steady him, as he looked like he might fall over. "I have to get over there," he said, turning to Sally as he put his mobile back in his pocket. His hand trembled as it moved.

"Sir?"

"Mycroft was in the building."

The name rang a bell. For a second, Sally couldn't recall, but then an image snapped into place. "Wait, Sherlock's brother? That spooky guy with the brolly, from the Home Office?" She wondered if Sherlock knew about this yet, but wasn't sure why Lestrade was so shaken.

"He's my partner, Sally." His voice was thin and rough and, for a moment, she couldn't wrap her brain around the concept.

"Your partner? But I thought you were--" Lestrade's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as if he were daring her to make anything of it, and she shook her head. "Sorry, sorry. Really inappropriate. Look, you're obviously not in any shape to drive right now. I'll take you over there." She turned and shouted for Anderson, who was standing with another group of officers on the other side of the room, and he hurried to them. "Phillip, tell the DCI that the boss and I are heading for the scene." She didn't take her hand from Lestrade's shoulder; she thought he might not stay on his feet without something propping him up. She couldn't blame him at all; she'd be a right mess too if someone she loved might be dead in there.

"Why? We're not on this one."

"My partner was in the building when the bomb went off." Lestrade's voice shook. "His PA couldn't contact him on his mobile. He always answers the bloody thing."

Anderson blinked. "He? Nevermind. Sorry. I'm on it. Just get over there." He took off at a run and Sally pulled Lestrade along, heading for the car park.

***

Mycroft groaned and shook his head as he opened his eyes, his nostrils coated with a fine grit of powdered plaster and cement. He hadn't been out long; the dust hadn't even settled yet, and people were screaming and crying all around him. Smoke stung his eyes, bitter and acrid, and he coughed as he rolled himself up on one elbow to look around, dizzy and slightly disoriented, his ears still ringing.

The far wall of the ballroom was nearly gone, and rubble and limp bodies were scattered everywhere. The chandelier and parts of the ceiling had fallen and light fixtures dangled, their wires exposed. Tables, chairs, and decorations were blown over and damaged, making the entire space an obstacle course. Near the ruined wall, there were bodies buried under the debris. He had no idea if they were still alive. Some weren't buried but were obviously beyond all help. Suddenly he was very glad that Greg had never liked attending these things. All around the room, people were milling about in confusion, some of them staggering for the doors as the fire spread, others trying to help the injured. There was a warm trickle of blood running down his face that stained his hand when he reached up to brush it away. His suit was filthy, and he ached everywhere.

As he levered himself to his feet he patted his pocket, looking for his mobile, but it wasn't there. He dimly remembered having it in his hand a moment ago, but looking for it while the room burned around him was not a useful response. A quick look around the destroyed room allowed him to deduce the safest probable escape route, though he had no idea what the rest of the building would look like. He wondered if part of the structure would collapse before they could get out into the street at all. Mycroft shouted into the chaos, his throat sore from the smoke and dust. "Over here, this exit!" He gestured toward the clear doorway and grabbed the arm of the nearest person, pulling the man along with him; in his early 60s, recently widowed, calico cat. Several of the closer people looked in his direction and followed him as he limped toward the door.

The man whose arm he'd taken -- someone from the Culture and Sport ministry, Mycroft thought, vaguely recognizing him -- tucked his arm around Mycroft and slung Mycroft's arm over his shoulder. "Here, you'll not get too far like that." Mycroft didn't object; he leaned into the man's support and was at least able to hobble more quickly toward their objective. "Will Fraser," the man said. His voice had a northern tinge to it. Yorkshire, most likely, but diluted by years away.

Mycroft nodded. "Mycroft Holmes." He gestured down the hallway toward the left as they got out of the ballroom. Many of those still mobile swarmed around them, some helping others as Will was aiding Mycroft. "The stairs are that way. The lift is probably not functional, nor would it be wise to take it if it were."

Will nodded. "Right enough. Think you can manage?"

Mycroft resisted an urge to roll his eyes. "The alternative is rather undesirable, wouldn't you say?"

Will made an amused snort. "Put like that, of course. Where have I seen you before? You look familiar."

"On the Olympics committee, perhaps." He'd had to attend several times. Mycroft stopped Will for a moment to grab a fire extinguisher from the wall as they passed, crowded by the others running down the hallway. They were likely to need it at some point, as Mycroft could see the smoke thickening around them.

"Oh, yes, I remember you now. Traffic, wasn't it?" Mycroft just nodded, focused on keeping his feet under him and a grip on the extinguisher. Will coughed, affected by the spreading smoke and dust as they got to the fire door at the stairwell. He reached out gingerly to touch the door with the back of his fingers, checking for hidden fire. "Okay, we're good on this one," Will said, looking back at the dozen people crowding fearfully behind them. He opened the door and the group surged into the stairway.

***

Greg paced near the perimeter of the bombing site, staying near the triage area and the ambulances, along with a small but growing crowd of others looking for missing loved ones. He knew better than to cross into the zone, no matter how much he wanted to. Getting in the way was not going to help anyone. Sally had driven like a demon until the traffic became too tangled and started to route around the scene. She'd parked then and they'd run the rest of the way to the hotel. Greg had asked after Mycroft when he could get the attention of one of the paramedics, but from what the young bloke said before rushing back to his work, nobody had seen him yet.

He was cold, and it had started raining, but he wasn't going to leave until he knew. Breathless and frantic in his worry, Sally finally stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Greg, stand still. Breathe." He saw the concern in her eyes and stopped his restless movement.

"I may fall over if I stop," he admitted, looking up at the burning building. God, when had he ever felt this frightened?

"Then lean on me." She held out a hand. Greg hesitated, not wanting to expose himself that much. "It's all right," Sally said quietly.

"I just..." The whole situation was killing him.

"You'd do it for me and you know it." He couldn't argue with that; he let her fold him into her arms, clinging to her as he tried to calm himself.

"Christ, Sally, I just want to see him out of there alive," Greg whispered, his chest painful and too tight. He could hear his voice crack, raw with too much emotion.

Sally ran one hand up and down his back, slow, and asked, "When did you start seeing him?" He knew she was trying to distract him. He couldn't help anyone. He couldn't go into the building with the firefighters. He couldn't do anything for the injured and the dead being brought out. He closed his eyes to block out the sight of the shattered building's facade, the pouring smoke, the flashing lights, and the rubble on the pavement.

"Before Sherlock came back." Greg shuddered. "He'd known all along, about the ruse." He couldn't help remembering the guilt he'd felt when he heard Sherlock had jumped from the roof of Bart's. "He -- he was keeping an eye on me at first, trying to keep me safe, he said."

"I remember you talking about the shooter Moriarty'd set on you," Sally said, nodding.

"But I didn't know about it before Mycroft told me, and he was just kind to me, and patient, and I needed that then. Everything was so fucked up." His voice quieted again. "God, I needed him." He took a harsh breath. "I still do, and I can't--" Greg couldn't force any more words out.

Sally's voice was calm under the noise and the tumult and he tried to let it soak into him. "It's all right, Greg. You don't have to talk about it if you can't." She took his shoulders in her hands and they separated; she looked up into his face. "It's all right to be afraid for him right now."

"I should be doing something. Anything." He slid his hands up her arms and they stood there, looking at one another in silence as Greg took a few deep breaths. "I hate feeling so helpless. Useless."

"When he comes out of there, he's going to need you, whatever shape he's in. You can always say a prayer for him now."

Greg shook his head. "There's no god I believe in anymore. But if he can still walk, he'll find a way out. Mycroft's bloody brilliant. He'll find a way." He had to keep telling that to himself, had to trust the man, no matter how much more impossible the situation felt with every passing moment.

"If he's anything like his brother," Sally said, nodding, "I believe it."

***

They may have got into the stairwell, but actually making it down the stairs was proving more of a challenge than Mycroft cared to contemplate. Being on the side of the building where the bomb had detonated, parts of walls were missing, rubble cluttered the stairs, and in a few places, there were gaps where stairs were entirely missing. They had to help one another through and over the blockages, and down past the gaps. Mycroft had handed the fire extinguisher off to one of the other people with him, but insisted they keep it with them in case they needed it. Three flights back he'd undone his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, exhausted and sweating from his exertions.

They'd made it down several storeys -- Mycroft was too busy clambering with an only partly functional leg to keep count -- when they came to a complete blockage. "We're not going to make it past this," he said. There was no way to dig through it without taking entirely too much time and, quite likely, heavy equipment. With this much damage to the building, he sincerely doubted its structural integrity and he knew they were on borrowed time as it was. "We'll have to go back up to the floor above and try to find another way out."

There was some panicked discussion, but Mycroft ordered and Will persuaded and between them they managed to get everyone back up the stairs and into the smoke-filled hallway in fairly short order. "Keep below the smoke as best you can," Mycroft said. He squinted down the hall as they crouched, trying to determine where they were.

"It's burning down at the far end," one woman said, pointing ahead of them. "How are we going to get out of this?"

"Into one of the rooms. There are windows," Mycroft said, gesturing to the row of doorways on either side of the hall.

"But we've no keys and, even if we did, they wouldn't work with the electric blown out," she answered.

Mycroft reached out and took the extinguisher from the man who'd been carrying it. "This will have to do." Before he could do anything with it, though, he felt a shift under his feet and heard the building groan. He looked around frantically. "Run," he shouted. "The floor's about to give way!" Covering his nose and mouth with one arm, he ran down the smoky corridor, ignoring the weakness and shooting pain in his leg. He could hear the group following him as his eyes burned, and then the floor caved in behind them. There were shouts and screams as the ceiling fell, the corridor behind them collapsing. Terrified cries echoed and he knew they'd lost someone -- more than one -- but he couldn't stop to look or to try to rescue anyone without being caught in the destruction himself.

The smoke got too much after only a few moments and he dropped to his knees when they were clear of the collapse. Coughing, his eyes burning and watering, he rested for a moment, looking behind him at the gaping hole where they had been standing only seconds before. After a quick count, he saw that their party had been reduced to seven people. The thought left him numb.

"Bloody hell," Will rasped. "We're never going to make it out of here."

Panting and coughing, his lungs protesting violently to the smoke, Mycroft shook his head. "No. We'll find a way. If we get to a window, we might be able to attract the attention of the rescue workers."

"Right, then." Will looked at him, and Mycroft could see the fear in the man's brown eyes.

Mycroft's heart was pounding. His lungs ached, and he was dizzy from the smoke, but he was determined to get as many of them out of the building as he could. He staggered to his feet and made his way to the next door along the hall. He was still somewhat disoriented but he was fairly certain he remembered what side of the building faced the street. Will joined him and they gripped the big extinguisher between them to use it as a battering ram. "On three," Mycroft said, swinging it back in time with Will. Will nodded.

Mycroft counted it out and they struck the door near the lock with all their strength. It shuddered but didn't open. "Again," Mycroft said, conscious of the advancing flame and their very limited time. The second blow slammed the door open, banging against the wall as it bounced, and Will hurried everyone through into the dark room beyond, staggering in after them. Mycroft followed them in, closing the door as best he could. The room was empty, and he could see the lights of the building across the street through the sheer drapes on the window.

He handed the extinguisher to Will. "Take the sheets from the bed and seal the edges of the door against the smoke," Mycroft ordered, not caring who actually did it, so long as it was done. The smoke had to be kept out of the room or they might well die of it before the fire got to them. He pulled the duvet off the bed himself as the others hurried to follow his direction. Limping to the window, he pulled the drapery back. There was no way to open it. "Will, we need the extinguisher again." Will was there by his side in a moment and together they attacked the window, battering the pane until they'd shattered it, then knocking glass shards away so that they could lean out without cutting themselves open.

The cold, wet air was almost painful after the heat and the smoke but Mycroft breathed in as deeply as he could, coughing violently. His eyes ran from the burn of the smoke they'd been immersed in. He wiped at them with one sleeve, not caring that it was filthy and covered with dust and grit. It took a moment before he could steady himself enough to look around.

They were about four storeys above the street. It was too far to safely jump, but he could see the fire and emergency vehicles all around below them, and the crowds of people outside the perimeter of the scene gawking at the disaster. Flipping the tasteful and understated duvet to show its white underside, he hung it out the window so that it would be immediately visible as a place with living people in it in need of rescue. He would have shouted for help but simply didn't have the breath in his lungs for it. 

In fact, his lungs were barely cooperating at all. Everyone was crowded at the window next to him as he slid down to sit on the floor, and a couple of them had sufficient remaining lung capacity to scream at the firefighters below. Mycroft's head reeled and he sat there gasping, having done all he could. His vision was going a bit spotty, but he held on to consciousness with all his strength.

***

Julia, Mycroft's mysterious dark-haired PA, joined them not long after they arrived, sheltered by an umbrella. "I've got our security personnel inside the perimeter looking for him," she said, for once not texting. She held a cup of hot coffee out to Greg. "If he's among those evacuated so far, they'll find him. They have instructions to prioritise his treatment if he's injured, and they'll be checking for him as people are brought out of the building."

Greg nodded, his arms wrapped around himself as he shivered in the cold rain, water dripping from his soaked hair. He unfolded himself enough to take the coffee from her and sip, then shivered more violently as the heat of it intensified the cold he felt. "I've tried several times to ring him but got nothing." The waiting had dug a trench of despair in his chest that he was fighting as best he could.

"If he hasn't responded it's because he can't or because his phone was damaged. We both know that." Julia's usual impassivity was failing around the edges. Greg could see the tightness in her eyes and her shoulders, her white knuckles as she gripped the umbrella's handle. "We're doing everything possible, Greg." She stood next to him and allowed him and Sally to share the brolly with her, though it was a bit of a tight fit. The two women kept him between them, and he suspected they were both making sure he stayed on his feet.

"The longer he's in there--"

Sally gripped his wrist and squeezed hard. "Don't think like that."

He closed his eyes tightly, gripping the paper cup. "I don't want to. God, I don't want to. I want to believe he'll be all right, that he'll be coming home to me tonight." Julia and Sally both put an arm around his back, holding him between them.

"Just breathe," Sally murmured. Greg nodded, doing his best not to panic. He opened his eyes again, only to see another bit of the building crumble in on itself while people in the crowd around them screamed at the sight. The cup fell from his fingers and he buried his face in his hands. Both of them pressed in closer around him, their arms tightening, keeping him steady. "We've got you," Sally said. "Whatever happens, we've got you."

A few minutes later, a white sheet appeared in a broken window four storeys up, flapping in the cold wind, near where the collapse had occurred. They watched, breathless, as the firefighters rushed to get a rescue ladder up to the window.

Minutes dragged by as the rescue workers maneuvered and got fire crew up the ladder, but it looked like they had got to the stranded people in time. Some of the survivors were obviously injured and it took time to get them down the ladder, but eventually all of them were out and safely on the ground.

It was only a few minutes later that Julia's mobile tone sounded. She pulled it from her pocket and read it. "They've got him," she said, tension falling away from her face as she spoke. Greg felt lightheaded. "He was in the group they just got out of the window as we watched."

"Is he hurt?' Greg barely managed to keep himself from running toward the triage area.

Julia nodded. "Yes, but not too badly, from the report. They'll be taking him to hospital in a few moments. Come on, we're going in." She hurried to the tape marking the perimeter and spoke briefly to one of the constables on crowd control. Greg and Sally both showed their warrant cards and the three of them were allowed into the scene.

Greg started to run once they'd been told which ambulance Mycroft had been loaded into, both women close on his heels. He wove through the crowd of fire, police, medical crews, and people who were escaping the devastated building with only one thing in his mind. It took only a couple of minutes to get to the ambulance in question, but he was breathless when he arrived, his heart rattling with his unease. Two of Mycroft's security people flanked the doors of the ambulance, looking on with some concern. He stuck his head in as the medic was working on Mycroft's leg. Mycroft was lying on the gurney, an oxygen mask over his face, wired up to monitors, and looking filthy, bloodied, and exhausted, but Greg didn't see any obvious burns.

"Oh, thank god, Mycroft." Mycroft's eyes opened and he held out a trembling hand to Greg as the medic looked back at him.

"Right then, you're the bloke we're waiting on, yeah?" The young man tilted his head, gesturing for Greg to get in.

"We'll meet you at the hospital soon as we can," Sally said.

Greg just nodded, not really caring about anything but the man in front of him as he clambered into the narrow space, edged past the medic, and crouched down on one knee to take Mycroft's hand. He spared barely a glance at the medic, enough to see that he was treating an open wound on Mycroft's leg, but it didn't look life-threatening. Someone closed the back door of the vehicle and it started to move.

Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand, holding on tight "Greg." His voice was raw and painful, slightly muffled by the oxygen supply. Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by a harsh, hacking cough that shook Mycroft's body and left him gasping and limp when it passed.

"Don't. Don't talk. Just breathe," Greg said, shifting to sit by Mycroft's side and take him carefully into his arms. "I'm right here with you." Mycroft smelled of acrid -- probably toxic -- smoke, and he was shaking, but he was warm and solid and alive and all Greg could do was hold on to him, pressing careful, relieved kisses to his face and hair. His arms slid around Greg's body and Mycroft clutched Greg's wet coat tightly in his fists as the medic finished bandaging the wound on his leg.

After a moment, Greg calmed down enough to take a longer look at his lover. Mycroft's face was streaked with soot and blood, pale trails running through it where tears and rain had thinned it out somewhat. His suit was filthy and bloodstained. One of Mycroft's hands trailed around to Greg's chest and rested over his heart, his fingertips caressing the damp cloth of his shirt. He put his own hand over Mycroft's, pressing it to him and rubbing one thumb absently across the back of it. A moment later, a blanket was draped over Greg's shoulders.

He sat silently and listened, worried by the rasp of Mycroft's breathing, the harsh and frequent coughing, and the redness in his irritated eyes, incredibly relieved that Mycroft was still with him. Although Mycroft had survived the fire and didn't look terribly badly injured on the outside, smoke inhalation was nasty stuff, and Greg wasn't certain he was going to be well again for a while. From the looks of things, he suspected Mycroft was in for a couple of days in hospital, at least, before he'd be released.

***

When they got to the car, Julia knew it was going to be a long trip to the hospital, as traffic was nearly impossible, and only emergency vehicles were moving through the area with any speed. She turned up the heat, in deference to the wet, shivering woman sitting next to her. "Are you going to be all right, Sergeant Donovan?"

Donovan nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay. I don't really know your boss at all, but I'm very worried about mine right now. Greg's tough, one of the strongest blokes I know, but he was really shaken up by this." She started peeling off her wet coat as the passenger compartment warmed up. "I don't know your name."

"Julia." She felt no need to lie to the sergeant as she had when she first met Doctor Watson. Of course, the woman wasn't making a tacky and ill-advised pass at her, either.

"Sally." She held out a damp, chilly hand and Julia shook it. "What about you? How are you holding up? I mean, you work for Holmes."

Julia allowed a small sigh to slip out and leaned back a little into the seat, her lips tugging into a slight frown. "I've been with him for over a decade. Regardless of what anyone thinks of his brother, Mycroft is a good man, and I'm glad that Greg could see that in him, even after everything that happened." She looked out the window for a moment, not really seeing the barely-moving traffic around them. "I haven't got a full report about his condition as yet, but smoke inhalation is serious, and I'm quite concerned about him. He may be out of the building, but this isn't going to be over for a while yet."

"Yeah." Donovan's voice was weary and apprehensive. "I had no idea Greg was even seeing anyone after his divorce a while back. I only just found out about this today. Bit of a shock, you know?"

"They've both been very private about it. I don't really blame them; I know how poorly many people still take the idea." Julia's mobile sounded with a text. "Sorry, I have to deal with this." The situation was a delicate one and it wasn't until they actually walked into the hospital that she was able to set her work aside again, much to her regret.

An inquiry at the information desk provided them with the number of the room where Mycroft had been settled after x-rays, blood tests, and all the other unpleasantness associated with an emergency visit. Greg looked up when they walked in, but the sight of Mycroft in the hospital bed, wired up and with a tube down his throat, was disconcerting. She hoped she hadn't faltered when they entered. "How is he?" she asked.

"Drugged to the gills," Greg said. Mycroft's hand was in his, and they both looked ragged. Mycroft appeared to be asleep, thankfully. "Too much crap in his lungs. They had to do this shortly after we got here because his throat was closing up. They're going to have to suction stuff out of him every so often." Greg took a deep breath and let it out, slow and shaky. "Nothing broken and no burns, thank god, but he's going to be here for a few days. The doc said we'll have to watch him once he gets home, because he'll be susceptible to bronchitis or pneumonia until his lungs heal." Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand gently.

That was worrisome but not entirely unexpected. "I'll keep an eye on him when he gets back to work."

"Thanks." Greg's reply was soft and subdued.

Donovan approached him and rested a hand on his shoulder. "How are you?"

"Bloody miserable. I hate not being able to do anything but wait."

"Nonsense," Julia insisted. "Your presence here is precisely what he needs right now."

"Julia--"

"No. I mean that." She looked at Mycroft's pale, still form in the bed, the soft beeping and humming of monitors sounding in the room around them. "He rarely speaks of his personal life, though he says more to you than to most, but I think you still don't understand just how alone he was before he met you. Or how much you mean to him."

Greg's eyes closed for a moment. He swallowed thickly and bit his lip, then looked down at Mycroft. "Thank you," he whispered. He looked back up at Donovan. "I don't know how long this is going to take. Might be a few days before I can get back to work. Can you bring the leave paperwork by later tonight for me to sign?"

Donovan nodded. "Yeah, of course. Don't worry, we'll all cover for you. Take what time you need." She squeezed Greg's shoulder and slipped her arm around him as she stood there. "You need anything -- anything at all -- let me know. Somebody will bring it by, okay?"

"Thanks, Sally. I appreciate it. Really."

"You need anything now?"

Greg shook his head. "No. Not really. Just him, you know?"

Julia nodded. "Shall I come by tonight to take you home, or will you be staying here?"

"I'll be here but if you can send somebody by the Yard to take my car home, that would be great." He fished around in his pocket and handed Juila his keys.

"Of course."

***

Greg woke with a start when Sherlock entered the room. It had to be well into the small hours, and the lights were dim. Sally had long ago come and gone with takeaway curry and his leave forms, while Julia had brought clean, dry clothes for him and something to sleep in. He'd been curled up on a rollaway bed next to Mycroft's for the night. Sherlock looked vaguely startled when Greg sat up.

"I didn't think you'd come. Where's John?" Greg's voice was quiet and a little gravelly with sleep when he spoke.

"Extra shifts due to the bombing." Sherlock glanced at the monitors Mycroft was wired to. "I would rather he were here. He's better at this sort of thing."

Greg slid his legs over the side of the bed to face Sherlock and blinked a few times, trying to shake off the exhaustion. "You want coffee or something?"

"No." Sherlock sat in the chair near Mycroft's bed and looked over at his sleeping brother.

"You think this was aimed at him?" Greg knew that Mycroft's job was ridiculously secret and that the man had enemies.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. There were several other, more visible targets there. Mycroft was collateral damage."

"He's going to be in hospital a few days. They'll probably keep him under sedation until they pull the tube out of his lungs. I've got no idea how long it's going to take after that for him to recover. Might be some permanent lung damage." Greg sighed and wrapped his arms around himself, not conscious of the motion. He hated the thought of Mycroft being hurt; it ached inside him.

"It's not like Mycroft ever does anything phy--"

"No. Stop," Greg snapped. "You're not doing that, Sherlock. Not right now. If you're not here because you want to help him in some way, then leave." There were moments when Greg despaired of Sherlock ever having anything even vaguely resembling compassion for his brother. "Talk to John about what this can do to a person, then think very hard about whether you want me to punch you repeatedly, before you comment on it again."

"...Not good?" Sherlock sounded genuinely confused.

"No, Sherlock. Not good. Just because you can say something doesn't mean you should. John keeps telling you that. And I'm really not in a good place to listen to you insult Mycroft right now."

"That wasn't my intention. I was simply pointing out that it was unlikely to have a significant impact on his work."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But it's likely to have one on his personal life. Which means it's also going to affect me. _Anything_ that hurts him is going to affect me."

Sherlock's eyes glinted as they moved in the dim light in the room, searching Greg's face and body for whatever it was he looked for in moments like this. "I see."

"Why are you here so late, anyway?" Greg rubbed his tired, blurry eyes with the heel of one hand. "It couldn't wait until tomorrow, when I was actually awake?"

"Too many annoying people around. Beyond that--" Sherlock paused for a moment, his thumb rubbing the arm of the chair in the awkward silence. "I wanted to see for myself how he is." He sounded like the words had been dragged out of him with a pry bar.

"Well, now you've seen. He's alive, he's recovering, and he's unconscious. That's not likely to change for another day or two, at least." The thought knotted Greg's stomach, but he was exhausted and cranky and he really shouldn't punch Sherlock, no matter how tempted he was. "Unless you've some other reason to be here, I'd really like to go back to sleep."

Sherlock didn't move.

"Are you going to leave?"

"No."

Greg couldn't quite suppress the quiet groan in the back of his throat. "Good Christ," he muttered. "I have got no bloody idea what goes on in your head."

"That's entirely unsurprising."

"Sorry to be an inconvenience," Greg muttered, dropping himself back into the bed. He rolled onto his side facing away from Sherlock.

"I don't actually hate my brother," Sherlock said, his voice a soft rumble under the beep and hum of the hospital machinery. "I know that's what you think."

"Couldn't prove it by how you treat him." Greg dragged the covers up around his shoulders and considered ignoring Sherlock. As if anyone could ignore the man. Ever.

He'd almost dropped off before Sherlock spoke again. "Lestrade." He tried to pretend he was asleep. "Greg."

"What?" He couldn't help the irritation in his voice.

"Mycroft doesn't believe in sentiment."

Greg made a sound of pure frustration and sat up again. "You could have bloody well fooled me. If you've got something to say, have some fucking mercy and spell it out in small words, would you? I've had a horrid day, I'm exhausted, and I need to get some sleep."

Sherlock stared at him over steepled fingers. Greg started to lie back down. "You are the singular exception to every rule my brother has ever lived by."

"Small words, Sherlock. I am operating on zero brain right now. And no smart remarks out of you about that."

"The only relationships in which Mycroft has ever indulged have had a variety of ulterior motives. Yet he has none with you." Sherlock paused, his brow wrinkled, fingertips pressed to his lips. Greg waited. "He loves you." Greg didn't like the slight hint of surprise in Sherlock's voice.

"I _had_ noticed."

"He doesn't love anyone."

"If you'd stop resenting him for five minutes you'd know that's not true."

"I'm still trying to understand why you're different."

Greg sighed, resigning himself to the whole surreal situation. "I seem to recall being on the short list of people you threw yourself off a roof to protect. And thank you for that. I know I never said it properly before. But you always called yourself a sociopath. That's not what a sociopath does. You're not a machine, Sherlock, and neither is your brother. Why is that such a surprise to you?"

"You're... not wrong."

"There's a shock."

"Don't expect me to attend the wedding. They're incredibly tedious."

Greg shook his head, feeling a bit of whiplash at the change in direction Sherlock had taken. "What?"

"Assuming this incident hasn't damaged his brain beyond repair, I should expect to hear an announcement shortly after he regains consciousness."

Burying his face in his hands, Greg rubbed his eyes. Bright spots appeared under his eyelids. He did not need this right now. "Sherlock."

"What?"

"Go home."

Sherlock rose and wafted out of the room like a dream raven in the darkness. Greg groaned and flopped onto his back, pulling the pillow over his head. Holmeses. He was never in a million years going to understand either of them.

***

Greg spent a rough day and a half waiting before the docs pulled the tube out of Mycroft's lungs. They were still giving him oxygen through a nasal cannula, but he looked like he was doing a lot better without the tube down his throat. He wasn't unconscious for terribly long after the procedure, but he was groggy and obviously uncomfortable when he woke. Greg was there sitting on the bed with him as he became more aware, holding his hand and murmuring reassurances.

It took a while before Mycroft could speak without coughing from the irritation in his throat, though Greg gave him ice chips to help ease that. When he did, he sounded like he'd been gargling sand; it hurt to hear him. When he was finally able to speak with a little more clarity, Greg asked how he was feeling.

Mycroft's eyes were tight and he grimaced before he spoke. "Like gnomes have been excavating my chest with pickaxes."

Greg cringed. "That sounds bloody awful."

"It is, I assure you," Mycroft rasped.

"The doctor will be back in a bit to check on you now you're awake," Greg said. "They're going to want to talk to you to make sure you're all right." Mycroft just nodded and Greg bent down from his place at Mycroft's hip to take him carefully into his arms. "Come here." He leaned back to sit again with Mycroft in his embrace and they held each other close for a long time, Greg just feeling Mycroft breathe against his body and letting that reassuring fact settle into his bones.

Finally, Greg turned his face and nuzzled into Mycroft's hair. "I was so worried about you," he whispered. Mycroft's arms tightened around him.

"I was afraid we wouldn't make it out of the building," Mycroft said quietly, his voice still painfully rough. "There's a man, Will Fraser. I need to make sure I properly express my appreciation for his help while we made our escape."

Greg nodded, helping Mycroft lie back down. "I'll have Julia find him. If he helped to get you out of there, I want to thank him as well."

The doctors returned while Greg and Mycroft conversed, needing to poke and prod at Mycroft, so Greg called Julia from the corridor while he waited, leaning against the wall as he told her what Mycroft wanted. She was relieved that he was finally awake again. "Does he need anything else?" she asked.

"Not right now, I don't think, but thanks. I'd appreciate it if you didn't put any work under his nose for another couple of days at least, though. He's not ready for it yet."

"Don't worry. I don't have any plans to bring anything to his attention until he's back at the office. And I'll find Mr Fraser for him."

Greg thanked her and then hovered near the door of Mycroft's room until the doctor let him back in. She was a tall, heavyset woman with a somewhat abrupt manner. Greg found her a little brusque, but she was good at what she did. "We'll have him here one more night," she said, addressing both of them, "and then you can go home in the morning if you're still doing well, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft nodded. "I shall look forward to it."

***

Mycroft slept most of that day, the monotony broken only by short but painful coughing fits and some quiet conversation with Greg. Breathing deeply hurt and tended to trigger more coughing. He couldn't exactly say he was feeling well when he was released the next morning, but at least he was able to leave on his own feet. The fact that his leg still pained him and he limped a bit was not worth mentioning. That he'd spent the drive home resting against Greg's side with his head on Greg's shoulder would be their secret.

Greg saw him settled on a comfortable couch at their flat once they arrived, then set Mycroft's favourite music playing, before joining Mycroft there himself. "How are you feeling, love?" Greg asked, wrapping his arms about Mycroft and encouraging him to lie back in his arms. Mycroft didn't object in the least.

Mycroft sighed, taking Greg's hands and tugging his arms closer about him, savouring the feeling of safety he felt there. "Better, now we're home." Home, in his own clothing, comfortably settled on his own furniture, with his lover's arms about him. He couldn't complain terribly much -- it was an excellent position in which to find oneself.

"I'm not surprised." Greg nuzzled Mycroft's hair, his jaw slightly scratchy with greying stubble. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple as he ran a hand gently over Mycroft's chest. "I hate hospitals. Even more, I hate it when somebody I love is stuck in one." Greg's voice was low and gentle and Mycroft could hear the relief in it.

He took Greg's hand in his, threading their fingers together and squeezing for a moment. "I'm just glad I have you to come home to now. This place used to feel so empty." It had; Greg had brought life to the flat, and to Mycroft's whole world. "I shudder to think what it would be like right now without you."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that, do you?" Greg whispered, reaching up with one finger to tilt Mycroft's chin toward him, then kissing him with soft, warm lips.

Mycroft responded but was breathless far too quickly. He made a small, disappointed sound, then brought Greg's fingers to his lips and kissed those instead. "You have such wonderful hands," Mycroft murmured.

Greg made a soft, dismissive sound. "What, these?" He held up the hand Mycroft had kissed, fingers spread. "Rough, stubby workman's hands, love, like you'd find on a coal miner or something. Not all elegant like yours." Greg's thick finger traced along one of Mycroft's slender ones and over the back of his hand.

Mycroft shook his head, turning his hand in Greg's and pressing another kiss to his knuckles. "Not at all," Mycroft insisted quietly. "They're strong and capable and gentle. When you touch me..." He smiled, his voice quieting nearly to a whisper as Greg's arms tightened around him. "I wish I could breathe a little more easily. I want to feel them on my skin."

"Mycroft." His name on Greg's lips was barely a breath and he could feel the emotion in it. "God, I love you." Greg's body curled around him and he pressed kisses to the length of Mycroft's neck, leaving him dizzy with want but unable to do much about it.

Mycroft reached back and slipped his fingers into Greg's hair, then turned to embrace him fully, burying his face in the crook of Greg's neck. Their legs tangled together on the long couch and Mycroft breathed in the warmth of Greg's body, just holding on to him, suddenly overcome by what might have happened.

Greg's hand moved up and down on Mycroft's back, soothing and caressing; he tugged at Mycroft's shirt and slid his hand inside to stroke Mycroft's bare skin. "It's all right, love," he whispered. "It's all right. You're home and you're safe. You'll feel better soon." He shifted and settled, allowing both their bodies to rest comfortably in the slightly-too-narrow space. "You don't need to do anything but just be here."

Mycroft took a shuddering breath, managing to suppress the harsh urge to cough as he lay in Greg's arms. After a few minutes, he felt more steady and raised his head enough to look at his lover. Greg's eyes were closed but fluttered open as Mycroft watched. "Hmm?" Greg asked.

The words fell from his lips before he realized what he was saying. "I want to marry you." Greg's eyes widened slightly and his face was split by a broad grin as he started laughing. Slightly confused, Mycroft said, "What?"

"Your brother," Greg said through his laughter. "That first night you were in hospital he showed up like some great bloody crow to check on you and told me not to expect him at the wedding."

"Oh, good lord." Mycroft's head dropped, his forehead thumping on Greg's shoulder.

"Of course I'll marry you, love, if that's what you want," Greg added, his voice gentle and amused. "I just never thought you'd want to. I remember how hesitant you were when you asked me to move in here with you."

Mycroft smiled. "I suppose," he said into Greg's shoulder, "that I shall have to dispatch some of my minions to ensure my brother's attendance at the happy event."

Greg's answering laugh shook his body. "Oh god, I'd pay to see that!"

"I'll be sure to have it preserved on video," Mycroft said. "We can enjoy it in our retirement years." He joined Greg in his laughter.

~~fin~~


End file.
